[FIC] Save Your Heart for otp_destiel
Gift Type: Fanfic
Title: Save Your Heart
Author: etcetera_kit
Recipient: otp_destiel
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Minor spoilers up through 6.10
Word Count: 2.663
Author Notes: Written in response to the following prompt: The handprint is actually a claim, marking Dean as Castiel's mate and Castiel has decided that it's time for him to take what's his and show Dean what it means to be chosen by an angel. This ended up as more of a prologue. Quick turnaround, so this is un’betaed. All mistakes and silliness are my own.
Summary: Castiel went to Hell, fell from grace and died for Dean Winchester. From the beginning, they were meant to be together, but Dean rationalizes his feelings. But when does that end?
Save Your Heart
The worst part about descending into Hell was not the demons or the fires or the hysterical shrieking laughter. Angels rarely had a need to descend into Hell and their business was usually brief, demons giving way upon seeing an angel. Few angels were tasked with such a duty. Castiel had never been to Hell before his garrison learned of Hell’s plans for Dean Winchester. Their guard had been down. Their intelligence said that the demons planned to use John Winchester to break the first seal, but John Winchester had gotten out of Hell when the gate was opened and a reaper brought him to Heaven. He was safe and they had believed Hell’s plan to be thwarted.
But then Dean Winchester was taken as part of a crossroads deal. And the demons hid their plans so well that his garrison did not know what Alistair was going to do to Dean until the hour was late. The moment they intercepted that intelligence their orders came-lay siege to Hell and rescue the Righteous Man, before the first seal had been broken.
They had been expecting an easy extraction.
They were fools.
Every demon in Hell seemed to attack them. Angel could only be killed with angelic weapons and the demons had none of those, so their existences were not in danger. The only danger was that Dean Winchester would spill blood in Hell before they reached him.
And he did. He felt the first seal break. They all did. The cracking noise that ground through to the core of his being, the pure wrongness pervaded every sense. Their orders would stand, because the garrison knew the script-the Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can end it.
When they finally held back the demons enough for Castiel to gather Dean up, he realized what the worst part of Hell was-the stench.
When he found Dean, the Righteous Man was in one of Alistair’s torture chambers, the soul of a teenage boy strapped to the rack. While the souls and demons in Hell had no corporeal form, the human mind could create vivid replications. The boy had been almost completely skinned, blood pooling on the stone floor beneath him. The soul was screaming. The scent of blood and waste and decay permeated every fiber of Castiel’s being. He would learn later that a human would have vomited, but all he felt at the time was an overwhelming sense of sadness and a great deal of sympathy for Dean Winchester.
His attention went from the boy to Dean and he felt his grace reach out for him. He had been startled, shocked by the reaction, so visceral, so human. He wanted Dean Winchester, knew that this was the only person he would ever want in this way-vaguely, he knew that his grace was responding to his mate, but angels only mated with other angels. He had never heard of an angel mating with a human without severe repercussions. And those had been rebellions, whims. His entire grace was calling out for him to claim Dean Winchester as his own.
He was so overwhelmed by the pure need that he didn’t hear Dean’s shouting at first, missed the razor blade held in front of him to protect him.
“Who are you?”
He blinked slowly. “My name is Castiel. I am here to stop this.”
“What are you?”
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
Dean’s reaction surprised Castiel. He dropped the razor and sank to his knees, sobbing. Neither of them spoke, silence reigning save for the boy’s continued screams and Dean’s sobs. Castiel just gathered Dean within his grace and got them out of Hell.
He knew where Dean’s body was and rebuilt it. The damage was extensive and hard to heal. Dean’s soul was quiet within his grace, but he could feel the warmth and security radiating from it, along with too much guilt over what had happened.
“You will not remember this,” Castiel had murmured as he completed healing Dean’s body. “You will remember Hell, but my orders are for you to forget me.”
Dean didn’t reply-silent still. His soul just tried to cling further to Castiel’s grace.
“We will be together,” Castiel whispered as he placed Dean’s soul in his body. His soul cried out at the loss. Castiel had to fight to keep his grace from taking the soul again.
Before he returned Dean to consciousness, his grace seared a handprint into his shoulder, for remembrance, as a reminder.
--------------------
Three and a Half Years Later
Castiel never understood the true meaning of anger until today.
He’d been to Hell for Dean Winchester. He’d died for him-twice. He nearly fell, became almost completely human, gave up everything he had ever known, found out that God really was a deadbeat who didn’t care (and then had to reconcile that view with the fact that God brought him back twice), and what did he have to show for all these things he’d done for Dean. Nothing.
So he tried many methods for coping with the fact that his mate didn’t want him.
He ignored Dean for a year, during which Dean didn’t try to call him or pray for him and spent the whole year living with Lisa Braeden and her son. (Not Dean’s son, Castiel knew that, but Dean viewed Ben as his own.) But he broke the moment Dean prayed to him. He went to him right away, knowing that Sam’s comments were correct. He did like Dean much, much more.
And he only appeared when Dean mentioned a weapon of Heaven.
And he finally broke when he kissed the demon.
“I’d have given you an hour with her first.”
“Why would I want that?”
Dean Winchester, his mate, still remained oblivious.
Perhaps oblivious was the wrong term. Dean rationalized everything he felt towards Castiel and his male vessel. Dean used to remind him about personal space all the time, until he finally stopped. But he’d never been tense around Castiel, just relaxed and amused. Even when Castiel had been upset before, about Dean giving up and trying to leave to become Michael’s vessel, he hadn’t been truly angry. He’d just been confused, disappointed and anxious beyond belief, knowing that, despite Michael’s promises, he’d leave Dean a shell and not care if his loved ones were safe. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Dean, just shock him into realizing what an errant fool he was being.
After that, after Pestilence, after Castiel became little more than human, Dean had been the only one whose presence he could truly tolerate. Sam looked at him with such guilt and pity that Castiel wanted to rail against him, scream, do something to erase that look. Bobby was in no mood for sympathy and didn’t want to explain anything, just telling him to figure it out. But Dean… Dean remained neutral, but kept Castiel close.
Dean spent those few weeks before Stull Cemetery showing Castiel the mechanics of being human-bathing, dressing, eating, sleeping. Sleeping had been the hardest. He hated the dark as a human and sleep made him feel too vulnerable. Dean said nothing, just got a small nightlight for the guest room in Bobby’s house that became simply theirs after a few days. Dean sat in the bed with him, rubbing his back and trying to get him to relax enough to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, terror had kept Castiel awake. Dean didn’t push him away. But he also just kept telling Sam and Bobby that he was helping a friend. Both knew better, as did Castiel, but Dean would never admit to feeling more than friendship for Castiel.
And now he was angry.
He’d done everything he could, short of just taking what he wanted from Dean. And kissing Meg had been the last straw. Dean thought he was interested in a demon? All talk of profound bonds and porn and drinking was over. He was tired, in the middle of a civil war, and all the angels knew he had a mate but just didn’t know who. He was in over his head and would probably lose his tenuous command of the situation if the others realized his mate was a human, but he didn’t care. He wanted the simple comfort that being close to Dean gave him.
So he went to his human.
Dean was at Bobby’s house, in the guest room they had shared on the second floor. All of the things Dean had gotten for Castiel were still there.
“Hello Dean.”
His human didn’t start, just sucked in a deep breath and turned around with a huffy, “Don’t do that!” He closed the book and threw it on the bed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing of import.”
“Okay.” Dean appeared unconvinced. “You’ve just had a habit of showing up when one of Heaven’s weapons goes missing… or something.” He paused. “Just weird that you’re here to hang out.” He shrugged, then frowned. “What’s wrong?”
How to explain that? He loved Dean and knew that Dean returned the feeling, but had locked them away so deeply that Castiel was not certain he’d be able to bring them forward.
Dean was standing near the foot of the bed. Castiel was close enough to be able to smell his shampoo and soap, count his freckles. He felt like he’d loved Dean for so long, but in reality, only three and a half years had passed. He’d waited for Dean to make a move, but now knew that Dean never would. Waiting was pointless and fruitless.
He closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips to Dean’s.
Dean didn’t respond, but also didn’t move.
He didn’t feel angry anymore, just desperate and sad as he moved away from Dean.
“I should go,” he said softly, turning to leave.
“Don’t you dare!” He was startled when Dean grabbed his bicep roughly and turned him around-too startled to remember that he was an angel and could easily overpower Dean, prevent him from doing anything. “What was that?” Dean demanded.
“I-you’re my mate.”
“Your what?”
“My mate,” Castiel replied, voice calmer than he actually felt. Sweet Father, here’s the part where he actually rejects me. “When I pulled you from Hell, my grace responded to your soul, the way an angel’s grace responds to their mate’s. When I put your soul back in your body, my grace marked you.” His hand went to the nearly invisible handprint scar on Dean’s shoulder. His voice was gravelly when he said, “You are mine, Dean Winchester.”
His fingers threaded through Dean’s hair and he caught him open-mouthed this time.
Only now, Dean responded readily.
This was hot and wet and so, so much better than his only point of comparison. Meg tasted like sulfur, like Hell. Dean tasted like coffee (which Castiel had never liked much as a human) and cinnamon and something else that was uniquely Dean, that drugged his senses, that he couldn’t get enough of. He pressed forward eagerly, tongue brushing against Dean’s. A moan rose in the back of his throat as Dean gently sucked on his lower lip, softly biting before releasing his lips.
Castiel nearly whined. He finally got to taste Dean and now his mate was pulling away?
Dean’s hands were warm, running soothingly up and down his sides, under the trench coat and suit jacket. “Calm down, Cas,” Dean murmured against his lips. “We have enough time for this.”
Time. Time was what Castiel never felt he had enough of. He was fighting a war and had no knowledge of when he would be called away at a moment’s notice. His lieutenants knew an emergency and he sometimes thought they knew where his alliance-and heart-really lay.
“Time?” His voice sounded dazed, even to his own ears.
Dean laughed, actually laughed. “You’re worried about time? I should be freaking out.”
“This has been a long time coming.”
“Shut-up.”
Castiel was not sure how to process what happened next. Dean crashed their mouths together again. Castiel just pressed forward again. The backs of Dean’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards. This was going way beyond Castiel’s comfort level, but the sheer want outweighed his inexperience and trepidation with the situation.
“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, words almost a blur. “I’ll tell you what to do.”
They fumbled with their clothes, Dean making a comment about putting angel mojo to good use.
And when, finally, finally, Dean wrapped his legs around his waist and he could claim his mate… something inside him broke free. All the anger, the disappointment, the sadness about never being able to feel complete, to keep denying what his grace was screaming for… all that faded away and he could feel nothing but contentment.
Later, in the afterglow, they lay on their bed-their bed. They were facing each other. Dean was still. Castiel trailed his fingers up and down Dean’s left arm, feeling the faint rises of the scar that his grace had left on otherwise unblemished skin.
“I always knew this,” Dean said softly, breaking the silence.
“Really?” All he felt was mild interest. The war of Heaven was buzzing in his ears and his lieutenants were screaming for him to return, but he protested, giving empty promises to arrive soon.
“Yeah,” he replied slowly. “I thought you made a really bad wing man, until I realized that everyone in every place we went thought you were my boyfriend.”
That would make sense.
“That’s why you didn’t protest?”
Dean shrugged and slid a hand to Castiel’s waist, pulling him closer. “You have to fuck off to Heaven now, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I probably should be freaking out about all of this, but I’m not. I guess I always kind of knew. With all the creepy staring and getting in my space.” Dean sighed. “I can’t get rid of you, even if I wanted to.”
“You’re my mate,” Castiel replied quietly.
“I know. Can you at least come up with a goodbye before you leave?”
“Yes.”
Dean watched him as he got out of bed and started to dress. The question was so soft he might have missed it had he not been an angel. “So what happens now?”
“I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.
“So being an angel’s mate means I never get to see you?”
“No.” Castiel moved quickly back towards the bed. “I will be here as soon as I can, and I will show you exactly what it means to be an angel’s mate.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
He’d shown Dean a shadow of his wings before, the first night they met in this plane of existence. The wings were always with him, just out of reach. He brushed the feathers against Dean’s side, leaning over his mate for a quick kiss. Dean’s eyes widened. “You are showing me those later.”
“Of course. Do not underestimate me, Dean.”
A part of him was pleased when Dean visibly shivered.
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can you at least leave me a message or coffee or something to let me know you’re still alive?”
“Yes. Goodbye Dean.”
There was a long road ahead of them, but with something new on the horizon, Castiel felt like this war might end and he’d be able to be where he wanted, when he wanted. His anger felt like a distant, small thing. Dean was what he wanted and he found no resistance. This could have all been solved a long time ago, but there was no time for regrets.
The war in Heaven raged on.
But he still found time to leave Dean the coffee.
Millennia ago, when he and Gabriel had still been friends, the archangel had said, “Save your heart for someone who’s worth dying for.”
Yes, Dean was worth dying for.
Fin.
Title: Save Your Heart
Author: etcetera_kit
Recipient: otp_destiel
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Minor spoilers up through 6.10
Word Count: 2.663
Author Notes: Written in response to the following prompt: The handprint is actually a claim, marking Dean as Castiel's mate and Castiel has decided that it's time for him to take what's his and show Dean what it means to be chosen by an angel. This ended up as more of a prologue. Quick turnaround, so this is un’betaed. All mistakes and silliness are my own.
Summary: Castiel went to Hell, fell from grace and died for Dean Winchester. From the beginning, they were meant to be together, but Dean rationalizes his feelings. But when does that end?
Save Your Heart
The worst part about descending into Hell was not the demons or the fires or the hysterical shrieking laughter. Angels rarely had a need to descend into Hell and their business was usually brief, demons giving way upon seeing an angel. Few angels were tasked with such a duty. Castiel had never been to Hell before his garrison learned of Hell’s plans for Dean Winchester. Their guard had been down. Their intelligence said that the demons planned to use John Winchester to break the first seal, but John Winchester had gotten out of Hell when the gate was opened and a reaper brought him to Heaven. He was safe and they had believed Hell’s plan to be thwarted.
But then Dean Winchester was taken as part of a crossroads deal. And the demons hid their plans so well that his garrison did not know what Alistair was going to do to Dean until the hour was late. The moment they intercepted that intelligence their orders came-lay siege to Hell and rescue the Righteous Man, before the first seal had been broken.
They had been expecting an easy extraction.
They were fools.
Every demon in Hell seemed to attack them. Angel could only be killed with angelic weapons and the demons had none of those, so their existences were not in danger. The only danger was that Dean Winchester would spill blood in Hell before they reached him.
And he did. He felt the first seal break. They all did. The cracking noise that ground through to the core of his being, the pure wrongness pervaded every sense. Their orders would stand, because the garrison knew the script-the Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can end it.
When they finally held back the demons enough for Castiel to gather Dean up, he realized what the worst part of Hell was-the stench.
When he found Dean, the Righteous Man was in one of Alistair’s torture chambers, the soul of a teenage boy strapped to the rack. While the souls and demons in Hell had no corporeal form, the human mind could create vivid replications. The boy had been almost completely skinned, blood pooling on the stone floor beneath him. The soul was screaming. The scent of blood and waste and decay permeated every fiber of Castiel’s being. He would learn later that a human would have vomited, but all he felt at the time was an overwhelming sense of sadness and a great deal of sympathy for Dean Winchester.
His attention went from the boy to Dean and he felt his grace reach out for him. He had been startled, shocked by the reaction, so visceral, so human. He wanted Dean Winchester, knew that this was the only person he would ever want in this way-vaguely, he knew that his grace was responding to his mate, but angels only mated with other angels. He had never heard of an angel mating with a human without severe repercussions. And those had been rebellions, whims. His entire grace was calling out for him to claim Dean Winchester as his own.
He was so overwhelmed by the pure need that he didn’t hear Dean’s shouting at first, missed the razor blade held in front of him to protect him.
“Who are you?”
He blinked slowly. “My name is Castiel. I am here to stop this.”
“What are you?”
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
Dean’s reaction surprised Castiel. He dropped the razor and sank to his knees, sobbing. Neither of them spoke, silence reigning save for the boy’s continued screams and Dean’s sobs. Castiel just gathered Dean within his grace and got them out of Hell.
He knew where Dean’s body was and rebuilt it. The damage was extensive and hard to heal. Dean’s soul was quiet within his grace, but he could feel the warmth and security radiating from it, along with too much guilt over what had happened.
“You will not remember this,” Castiel had murmured as he completed healing Dean’s body. “You will remember Hell, but my orders are for you to forget me.”
Dean didn’t reply-silent still. His soul just tried to cling further to Castiel’s grace.
“We will be together,” Castiel whispered as he placed Dean’s soul in his body. His soul cried out at the loss. Castiel had to fight to keep his grace from taking the soul again.
Before he returned Dean to consciousness, his grace seared a handprint into his shoulder, for remembrance, as a reminder.
--------------------
Three and a Half Years Later
Castiel never understood the true meaning of anger until today.
He’d been to Hell for Dean Winchester. He’d died for him-twice. He nearly fell, became almost completely human, gave up everything he had ever known, found out that God really was a deadbeat who didn’t care (and then had to reconcile that view with the fact that God brought him back twice), and what did he have to show for all these things he’d done for Dean. Nothing.
So he tried many methods for coping with the fact that his mate didn’t want him.
He ignored Dean for a year, during which Dean didn’t try to call him or pray for him and spent the whole year living with Lisa Braeden and her son. (Not Dean’s son, Castiel knew that, but Dean viewed Ben as his own.) But he broke the moment Dean prayed to him. He went to him right away, knowing that Sam’s comments were correct. He did like Dean much, much more.
And he only appeared when Dean mentioned a weapon of Heaven.
And he finally broke when he kissed the demon.
“I’d have given you an hour with her first.”
“Why would I want that?”
Dean Winchester, his mate, still remained oblivious.
Perhaps oblivious was the wrong term. Dean rationalized everything he felt towards Castiel and his male vessel. Dean used to remind him about personal space all the time, until he finally stopped. But he’d never been tense around Castiel, just relaxed and amused. Even when Castiel had been upset before, about Dean giving up and trying to leave to become Michael’s vessel, he hadn’t been truly angry. He’d just been confused, disappointed and anxious beyond belief, knowing that, despite Michael’s promises, he’d leave Dean a shell and not care if his loved ones were safe. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Dean, just shock him into realizing what an errant fool he was being.
After that, after Pestilence, after Castiel became little more than human, Dean had been the only one whose presence he could truly tolerate. Sam looked at him with such guilt and pity that Castiel wanted to rail against him, scream, do something to erase that look. Bobby was in no mood for sympathy and didn’t want to explain anything, just telling him to figure it out. But Dean… Dean remained neutral, but kept Castiel close.
Dean spent those few weeks before Stull Cemetery showing Castiel the mechanics of being human-bathing, dressing, eating, sleeping. Sleeping had been the hardest. He hated the dark as a human and sleep made him feel too vulnerable. Dean said nothing, just got a small nightlight for the guest room in Bobby’s house that became simply theirs after a few days. Dean sat in the bed with him, rubbing his back and trying to get him to relax enough to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, terror had kept Castiel awake. Dean didn’t push him away. But he also just kept telling Sam and Bobby that he was helping a friend. Both knew better, as did Castiel, but Dean would never admit to feeling more than friendship for Castiel.
And now he was angry.
He’d done everything he could, short of just taking what he wanted from Dean. And kissing Meg had been the last straw. Dean thought he was interested in a demon? All talk of profound bonds and porn and drinking was over. He was tired, in the middle of a civil war, and all the angels knew he had a mate but just didn’t know who. He was in over his head and would probably lose his tenuous command of the situation if the others realized his mate was a human, but he didn’t care. He wanted the simple comfort that being close to Dean gave him.
So he went to his human.
Dean was at Bobby’s house, in the guest room they had shared on the second floor. All of the things Dean had gotten for Castiel were still there.
“Hello Dean.”
His human didn’t start, just sucked in a deep breath and turned around with a huffy, “Don’t do that!” He closed the book and threw it on the bed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing of import.”
“Okay.” Dean appeared unconvinced. “You’ve just had a habit of showing up when one of Heaven’s weapons goes missing… or something.” He paused. “Just weird that you’re here to hang out.” He shrugged, then frowned. “What’s wrong?”
How to explain that? He loved Dean and knew that Dean returned the feeling, but had locked them away so deeply that Castiel was not certain he’d be able to bring them forward.
Dean was standing near the foot of the bed. Castiel was close enough to be able to smell his shampoo and soap, count his freckles. He felt like he’d loved Dean for so long, but in reality, only three and a half years had passed. He’d waited for Dean to make a move, but now knew that Dean never would. Waiting was pointless and fruitless.
He closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips to Dean’s.
Dean didn’t respond, but also didn’t move.
He didn’t feel angry anymore, just desperate and sad as he moved away from Dean.
“I should go,” he said softly, turning to leave.
“Don’t you dare!” He was startled when Dean grabbed his bicep roughly and turned him around-too startled to remember that he was an angel and could easily overpower Dean, prevent him from doing anything. “What was that?” Dean demanded.
“I-you’re my mate.”
“Your what?”
“My mate,” Castiel replied, voice calmer than he actually felt. Sweet Father, here’s the part where he actually rejects me. “When I pulled you from Hell, my grace responded to your soul, the way an angel’s grace responds to their mate’s. When I put your soul back in your body, my grace marked you.” His hand went to the nearly invisible handprint scar on Dean’s shoulder. His voice was gravelly when he said, “You are mine, Dean Winchester.”
His fingers threaded through Dean’s hair and he caught him open-mouthed this time.
Only now, Dean responded readily.
This was hot and wet and so, so much better than his only point of comparison. Meg tasted like sulfur, like Hell. Dean tasted like coffee (which Castiel had never liked much as a human) and cinnamon and something else that was uniquely Dean, that drugged his senses, that he couldn’t get enough of. He pressed forward eagerly, tongue brushing against Dean’s. A moan rose in the back of his throat as Dean gently sucked on his lower lip, softly biting before releasing his lips.
Castiel nearly whined. He finally got to taste Dean and now his mate was pulling away?
Dean’s hands were warm, running soothingly up and down his sides, under the trench coat and suit jacket. “Calm down, Cas,” Dean murmured against his lips. “We have enough time for this.”
Time. Time was what Castiel never felt he had enough of. He was fighting a war and had no knowledge of when he would be called away at a moment’s notice. His lieutenants knew an emergency and he sometimes thought they knew where his alliance-and heart-really lay.
“Time?” His voice sounded dazed, even to his own ears.
Dean laughed, actually laughed. “You’re worried about time? I should be freaking out.”
“This has been a long time coming.”
“Shut-up.”
Castiel was not sure how to process what happened next. Dean crashed their mouths together again. Castiel just pressed forward again. The backs of Dean’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards. This was going way beyond Castiel’s comfort level, but the sheer want outweighed his inexperience and trepidation with the situation.
“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, words almost a blur. “I’ll tell you what to do.”
They fumbled with their clothes, Dean making a comment about putting angel mojo to good use.
And when, finally, finally, Dean wrapped his legs around his waist and he could claim his mate… something inside him broke free. All the anger, the disappointment, the sadness about never being able to feel complete, to keep denying what his grace was screaming for… all that faded away and he could feel nothing but contentment.
Later, in the afterglow, they lay on their bed-their bed. They were facing each other. Dean was still. Castiel trailed his fingers up and down Dean’s left arm, feeling the faint rises of the scar that his grace had left on otherwise unblemished skin.
“I always knew this,” Dean said softly, breaking the silence.
“Really?” All he felt was mild interest. The war of Heaven was buzzing in his ears and his lieutenants were screaming for him to return, but he protested, giving empty promises to arrive soon.
“Yeah,” he replied slowly. “I thought you made a really bad wing man, until I realized that everyone in every place we went thought you were my boyfriend.”
That would make sense.
“That’s why you didn’t protest?”
Dean shrugged and slid a hand to Castiel’s waist, pulling him closer. “You have to fuck off to Heaven now, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I probably should be freaking out about all of this, but I’m not. I guess I always kind of knew. With all the creepy staring and getting in my space.” Dean sighed. “I can’t get rid of you, even if I wanted to.”
“You’re my mate,” Castiel replied quietly.
“I know. Can you at least come up with a goodbye before you leave?”
“Yes.”
Dean watched him as he got out of bed and started to dress. The question was so soft he might have missed it had he not been an angel. “So what happens now?”
“I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.
“So being an angel’s mate means I never get to see you?”
“No.” Castiel moved quickly back towards the bed. “I will be here as soon as I can, and I will show you exactly what it means to be an angel’s mate.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
He’d shown Dean a shadow of his wings before, the first night they met in this plane of existence. The wings were always with him, just out of reach. He brushed the feathers against Dean’s side, leaning over his mate for a quick kiss. Dean’s eyes widened. “You are showing me those later.”
“Of course. Do not underestimate me, Dean.”
A part of him was pleased when Dean visibly shivered.
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can you at least leave me a message or coffee or something to let me know you’re still alive?”
“Yes. Goodbye Dean.”
There was a long road ahead of them, but with something new on the horizon, Castiel felt like this war might end and he’d be able to be where he wanted, when he wanted. His anger felt like a distant, small thing. Dean was what he wanted and he found no resistance. This could have all been solved a long time ago, but there was no time for regrets.
The war in Heaven raged on.
But he still found time to leave Dean the coffee.
Millennia ago, when he and Gabriel had still been friends, the archangel had said, “Save your heart for someone who’s worth dying for.”
Yes, Dean was worth dying for.
Fin.